


work song

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Dominant/Submissive, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: This thing between them--whatever it was--was becoming less and less about needing him to help her and more about pushing the boundaries of what she could ask for. It sent a small thrill down her spine to watch Brad—the loudest, most boisterous, most recognizable, unfocused men in the kitchen—become suddenly still and attentive at the sound of her voice.The task she asked of him became his priority and he would complete it quickly, deliver the goods as she asked, and then wait for the pending praise.(or, Claire bosses Brad around and he likes it.)
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	work song

**Author's Note:**

> I'm studying for the GRE and part of the test is 2 timed essays, so I wanted to challenge myself in a more fun way to see how much I could coherently get down in an hour. This is the result! I wrote this in exactly one hour so it's not the most detail-ridden thing I've ever written, but I hope it's enjoyable nonetheless! Let me know what you think!

_i._

On her first day in the kitchen, she’d expected to be thrown to the wolves. It wasn’t the fault of Bon Appétit or of the harried looking Carla who barely had time to say hello to Claire as she stepped into the kitchen. It was just part of the industry: sink or swim. 

But Claire felt like she had been floating and bobbing along between jobs, definitely more of a sink in her last kitchen job. It was one of the worst parts of the world she had chosen to work in. As someone who needed set boundaries, needed control and structure, the chaos of the kitchen unnerved her.

The chaos of Brad Leone unnerved her, too.

He was a riot of energy, bouncing around from one half-formed thought to the other, stopping to talk to everyone as he walked her through the kitchen. She couldn’t keep up with the flood of names and faces ( _Chris, Molly, Anna, Sarah, Gaby…)_ as well as his scattered, _bah-bah-bah_ staccato pattern of words as he tried to show her where equipment and food was.

Anxiety and panic flooded her chest as she felt herself become overwhelmed—too many sounds, too much information, complete overload. She couldn’t fail at this job, couldn't waste this opportunity.

“Brad!” she snapped, holding her hand up to stop his movements towards the walk-in. “Stop!”

The change was instantaneous. The command snapped him into focus, body going still and his eyes narrowing at her. Her heart thudded in her chest as she wondered if she crossed a line only ten minutes into her first day. 

She licked her lips, took a breath, and took a chance. “Tell me again where my pantry items are, where I place my orders, and where I find my first recipe to test.”

To her own ears, her voice sounded so certain, so commanding—nothing at all like the way she felt inside, shaky and wobbly. But if she only got a few pieces of focused information out of him, she wanted it to be the basics at the bare minimum to do her job. 

Brad stood up a little taller, ready to recite the requested information. “Pantry’s in the back here by the dishes—“ He pointed around the tiled wall and Claire nodded in response. “Your list of recipes to test will be emailed to you each morning or you can check in with me or Carla if you aren’t sure. And your orders?” He beamed at her, pointed to his chest. “Right here. I put ‘em in every Monday and Thursday and, oh, Claire, you _gotta_ get what you need to me day before, k?”

She let out a shaky breath, feeling relieved that she at least knew this much, and shot him a grateful smile. To her surprise, Brad didn’t seem to be upset at the interruption and instead seemed to be patiently waiting for her next question, anxiously bouncing from one foot to the other. 

“Oh, okay,” she told him, wondering what it was he was waiting for. “Come to you for orders and probably everything else while I get my feet under me,” she admitted with a sheepish grin.

He preened beneath her words, chest puffing slightly. “You got it, Claire. Anything you need, I’m here for ya. Just gotta tell me.”

In the coming months and years, she’d find out how true that was.

_ii._

_“Brad, can you get me that pan?”_

_“Brad, grab me that parchment paper?”_

_“Hey Brad, hand me a rolling pin.”_

_“Brad, can you spray this with Pam?”_

_“Brad, help me.”_

She doesn’t know how it starts, not really. Maybe it’s because she’s Claire Saffitz and it takes her no time at all to settle into the kitchen, to find her rhythm at Brad’s side as his go-to girl (“Claire, wanna taste something?” “Ooh, Claire, what do you think about this shrimp?”). Maybe it’s because she likes the way Brad looks at her, like he’s waiting for her next request.

It didn’t matter that he was her boss, didn’t matter that he was in the middle of something—a project or paperwork or email—if Claire needed something, Brad would deliver. 

So she pushed the edges of her delivery as they worked longer and longer together, dropped the _please_ and the _thank you._ She demanded more than asked, whinged and whined a bit until he came to stand at her side and do as he asked. 

It was becoming more and more of a _thing_ between them, something that she worried would one day cross a line. Maybe it already was.

Because it was becoming less and less about needing him to help her and more about pushing the boundaries of what she could ask for. It sent a small thrill down her spine to watch Brad—the loudest, most boisterous, most recognizable, unfocused men in the kitchen—become suddenly still and attentive at the sound of her voice.

The task asked of him became his priority and he would complete it quickly, deliver the goods as she asked, and then wait for the pending praise. 

And praise she delivered: _Thanks, Brad._ _What would I do without you, Brad? Brad, your support means everything to me._

Claire laid it on a little thick, made her voice syrupy and saccharine, made her eyes big and wide and grateful, let the corners of her lips curl upwards in a secret smile that was only his. 

Whatever this was between them, it was growing rapidly out of control. 

_iii._

It comes to a head one night after the office holiday party. They’re alone in the test kitchen, the rest of the crew long since abandoned them in favor of the bar down around the corner. Claire had waved them on, promising a more than tipsy Carla, Molly, and Andy that they’d join them as soon as she and Brad finished cleaning up the kitchen. 

“C’mon, guys. Gaby’ll kill us if we leave her kitchen like this. Andy broke the lock on the liquor cabinet.”

“Fuck yeah I did!” Andy chimed in from the back, dissolving into immediate laughter and leaning against Molly’s back for support. Claire shook her head at them all and turned to Brad for support. 

“Brad.”

Just one word, just his name. But Brad knew exactly what she needed, what she wanted, and rolled his eyes, stepped forward with his ams outstretched, his giant wingspan ushering out the last of the drunk editors, leaving them in peace to finish cleaning up the spilled tequila and broken liquor cabinet. 

“Jesus, Andy knows how to party,” Brad murmurs, shaking his head and leaning down with the spare rag to mop up where his fellow editor had spit out a half-swallowed shot. 

Claire collects the liquor bottles, vodka and gin and bourbon in hand, and replaces them on each of their respective shelves, just as Gaby would want. It’s only been a few months since Gaby took over duties as kitchen manager, but she ran a tighter ship than Brad ever had. 

Claire is tipsy herself, a few of the mixed cocktails Delaney was whipping up had gone down smooth and then gone straight to her head. Everything felt warm and loose and lax. It felt good. 

She turns to retrieve the tequila bottle only to find Brad rolling it between his hands, looking thoughtful. She grins at him, joins him at their old workstation—the place they used to stand side-by-side every day—and takes the bottle from his hand.

She wants to play.

“Drink with me.”

It’s not a question, not even a demand. She states it like it’s inevitable, like it’s already decided. Brad grins at her, eyes a little unfocused from his own round of cocktails earlier in the evening. 

“Thought you’d never ask, Claire.”

She unscrews the cap and lifts the bottle in a faux toast to him, something dangerous overtaking her as she replies, “I didn’t ask.” The swig of tequila to chase her statement goes down with a burn and she hands it out to him, eyebrow raised in challenge.

When his tongue flicks out to lick at his lips before taking a drink from the bottle, lips wrapping around the rim exactly where hers had been in a facsimile, a ghost of a kiss. Her eyes never leave his as he tilts his head back and swallows down his own shot and passes her the bottle right back, waiting for her next move. 

Claire takes the bottle from him and grins, eyes sparkling. She knows what she wants. 

She wants _him._

From the way he’s leaning towards her, the way his eyes are flicking to her tequila-glistened mouth, the way his fingers brushed over hers as the bottle passes between them, she feels confident to know he wants her, too. 

Only one way to find out.

“Give me your hand.”

Brad doesn’t hesitate—he never does. He offers her his hand and watches as she takes it between her own, turning it over palm up. It’s easy to forget how _big_ he is, but his hand in hers is proof enough that he’s more than twice her size. The thought shouldn’t be as arousing and tantalizing as it is. 

Reaching to their side, she grabs the ramekin of kosher salt and drags it over to them. “Can’t drink tequila without salt,” she murmurs. 

“Okay,” Brad agrees, uncharacteristically quiet, just waiting for her. She lifts his hand to her mouth, eyes lifting to meet his as she drags her tongue over the inside of his wrist and pulls back, sprinkles a little salt over the place she’d marked so the crystals stick to his skin.

She feels Brad go completely still beneath her as she leans back down, holds onto his wrist with one hand, and licks up the salt from his skin. Because she’s a tease, because she can, she lets her teeth graze the tendons in his wrist in a way that makes him exhale raggedly and sigh out her name. 

When she lifts her head and chases the salt with a shot of tequila, she can see he’s breathing fast, a complete wreck with eyes only for her, eyes only on her mouth. 

“Claire,” he growls. “Tell me. Tell me what you want from me.” His knuckles are white as he clutches the edge of the countertop, control close to snapping. It makes her stomach lurch at the mental image of what Brad Leone losing control would look like, of what it would feel like to try and reign him in and control that outburst of passion.

“Your turn,” she tells him, pushing the salt and tequila towards him and waiting. 

He falls upon her like a man dying of thirst. Thick fingers push her hair off her shoulder and press gently against the curve of her jaw, tilting her head to one side and exposing the lean, pale skin of her neck. 

“This okay?” he breathes out against her, nose nuzzling against her just barely, breath hot on her skin, waiting for her answer.

She clings to his shoulders and pushes his head towards her neck with a sigh and a breathy, “ _Yes.”_

The first lick of his tongue in one, broad stroke up her neck is electrifying and she tilts her head even further to the side to give him more access. When he pulls back, he looks wrecked, like he wants to haul her against him game be damned and finish this thing between them. But he dutifully reaches for the salt and drops a pinch over the patch of skin he’d laved before diving back in to lick it up immediately, stopping to nip at her skin and grinning against her when she hisses. 

He steps back and drinks the last of the tequila from the bottle, putting the empty container down on the counter with a _clink_ and reaching for her immediately, hands tight on her hips. 

She steps into him easily, palms smoothing over his button up and twining around his neck. He drops his forehead to hers, their breath intermingling. 

“God, what are we doing, Claire?” he asks, voice low and rough. 

“I don’t know,” she admits breathlessly. “But I don’t want to stop.”

He looks torn for a second between what they should do and what they want to do. But then she scratches his nape with her nail and he knows what he’ll do. 

“Tell me.”

She looks up at him through dark lashes, prepared to hold his hand and cross this line with him. 

“Come home with me.”

He’ll do what he’s always done: follow her lead.

_iv._

“Tell me,” he pants against the pale skin of her thigh, eyes on hers from his place between her legs. 

“Mouth,” she gasps, lifting her hips up to his lips. She threads one hand through his hair, thinks that she’ll tell him no more hat—not when it’s just them. She wants to be able to touch him just like this whenever she wants, wants to feel his soft, curly hair through her fingers. 

Brad obliges her as he always does, drags his tongue over her wet sex and laps at her entrance, dipping his taut tongue into her before retreating and flicking at her clit. She groans and reaches for him.

“More, more, more.”

Words are getting harder to get out, brain shutting down under the sensations he creates, lighting up every nerve ending in her body. Brad takes _more_ to mean _everything_ and he presses a callused thumb to her clit, pressing down into small, tight circles. 

Her world lights up in fierce, electrifying pleasure. Everything is Brad and his mouth and his hands and _him._

She scratches at his shoulders, tries to remember how to put words together to ask him to ease up because it’s _too much_. She’s floating away from him. 

And then—

_And then._

Because for as much as she enjoys telling him what she needs, what she wants, sometimes he doesn’t need the words; sometimes he just _knows._ He slides one hand up under thigh, hooking over her lower stomach and hips like a heavy anchor over her body, keeping her grounded and here in the moment. 

She sighs, twists in the sheets and writhes under his mouth and fingers as he does exactly what she asked of him—gives her more and more and more until she’s coming undone beneath his ministrations and chanting his name, thighs slick and smeared with her own fluids and his saliva. 

The next command she has for him—the one she gives as soon as she remembers how the English language works—is the one she’s wanted to give him since day one.

Putting her lips to his ear, she nips at the sensitive flesh teasingly and whispers, “ _Fuck me.”_

As always, he obliges.


End file.
